


The 100 Reborn

by lockerghost (orphan_account)



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Reborn, clexa - Fandom
Genre: Clexa, F/F, The 100 Reborn - Freeform, The 100 rewrite, also accepting this as new canon, gonna include fluff and smut and angst and everything, literally just rewriting the 100 as it progresses, we got it all here fam
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:05:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lockerghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rewriting The 100 starting at the Clexa sex scene.</p><p>My blog: <a href="http://lexacares.tumblr.com">lexacares</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Soft Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> I made the first chapter really soft and slow, and just about Clexa hanging out in bed. Some comfort after all that had happened on screen at the hands of Jason Rothenshit. I hope it's not too short, and the coming chapters will definitely be longer than this. We'll move on to big issues as we progress.
> 
> The next chapter is where all the big action starts, obviously. I just figured we all needed this little bit, beforehand.

Collapsing onto bed sheets, limbs heavy and still trembling, Lexa prayed that she’d stay there forever. Wrapped in Clarke’s arms--wrapped in the one girl that owned her heart and soul--was the only way she wanted to exist. The only way she wanted to live. And now, she knew, it was the only way she could.

She tried not to think about the fact that she would be alone again, soon.

She tried, and failed.

Clarke faced her, fingers tracing lazily up and down her exposed side. The touch was feather light, but Lexa felt as though she might break from the contact--that her skin might shatter and her ribs might cave in. It made her heart stutter in her chest, despite the fact that those same fingers had been in much more intimate places only minutes before. She swallowed at the thought. Her throat still felt raw from all moans she couldn’t help but let slip at the sky girl’s earlier ministrations.

“What’s on your mind?” The question was soft, and quiet. Lexa’s eyes came up to meet Clarke’s, blinking herself out of her thoughts. She didn’t move, letting familiar blue eyes settle on her features. She could see her reflection in the wide pupils, softened by candles and fading sunlight.

“Clarke,” she said, trying to keep her tone even. “I’ve been considering, and….” Her words trailed off as she pulled her lip between her teeth in anxiety. She watched as Clarke waited patiently, her gaze unwavering, before pushing herself to continue. “You should stay in Polis with me.” The words were out, and she could no longer stop them. She knew her love for the girl didn’t erase either of their obligations to their people, but it still stung to think that she could be ripped away from her at any moment. It stung to think that she couldn’t simply let herself be happy. “You’ll be safe here.”

Clarke took a moment to process the suggestion, brow furrowing ever so slightly. She scooted closer to Lexa, her hand leaving the girl’s side and coming to rest in the small distance between them. Their legs tangled under the furs.

“Lexa, you know what I have to do.” Clarke’s words failed to surprise her--she knew her people would always come first. Maybe, someday, they wouldn’t have to. But for now, that was how it was. It stung. But it wasn’t something she could change, despite the fact that she’d give anything to do so.

A short moment of silence fell over the two, their eyes searching each other’s through the still lingering haze of intimacy, before Lexa gave a subtle, understanding nod. Clarke had seen that nod on countless occasions before--barely so apparent as to be noticed, but so full of meaning that she felt her chest would burst every time. She couldn’t bear it. Not now, when everything felt warm, and perfect. Not now, when all she wanted was to love the girl beside her, and their combined scent still lingered in the air. “Can we talk about something else?”

Lexa stared for a second, blinking, before leaning towards Clarke and pressing their lips together. The contact was gentle, and slow--not heated and desperate, as it was minutes before. Her hand came up to cup the blonde’s jaw, sighing into the movement and the barely present swipe of a tongue, before she pulled away and pressed their foreheads together.

“Or… We can not talk at all.”

Clarke couldn’t help the giggle that ripped from her chest, as she pushed Lexa onto her back and rolled on top of her.

Her smile, Lexa thought, as lips came to play at her neck and Clarke’s hand traveled south. There was nothing she loved more than Clarke’s smile.

“Is this okay?” Clarke asked, still nipping and kissing at Lexa’s neck, as her fingers danced just above the girl’s core. She wasn’t sure Lexa was ready for more so soon, and she didn’t want to make her uncomfortable.

Instead of words, she got the gentle canting of hips, rolling up into her own. Her breath hitched, as she nudged Lexa’s legs apart and moved between them. Her lips made their way down Lexa’s neck, stopping to nip at her collarbone, before continuing lower.

Clarke let her hands worship the body beneath her, avoiding the most sensitive spots on purpose. Lexa felt soft under her palms--firm and lean, but soft, warm, and comforting.

She felt like home.

Clarke laid a small kiss just underneath her navel, as she came to lay under the furs, her head between Lexa’s thighs. She still avoided the places Lexa needed her most, laying small kisses on the insides of the thighs she held onto. She heard the girl whine above her, squirming.

“What?” Clarke laughed. “Got something to say?”

“Clarke…” Lexa’s laugh was soft, and light--the touch of a feather on smooth skin, and the feeling of a cool breeze on a hot summer day. Clarke swore she could listen to it forever.

Then she dipped down, pushing her tongue past Lexa’s lips, and running her tongue up the dripping length. The girl above her moaned abruptly, back arching and breath catching in surprise. “Clarke,” she repeated, softer this time. “Clarke….”

The sky girl took it slow, putting every ounce of love she had into each gentle stroke of her tongue. Lexa tasted incredible--softly sweet, salty, and intoxicatingly heady. Clarke felt her thighs quiver under her fingers, and she squeezed reassuringly, as she sighed into the heat at her mouth.

It didn’t take long before Lexa was rolling into Clarke’s mouth in a steady rhythm, moaning each time her tongue swirled around her stiff clit. Her hands drifted downward and twisted in the blonde locks, gently massaging as she felt tension coil in her belly.

“Clarke,” she began, breathless. “Can you…. Inside…. Beja.” Clarke felt a kick in her core at the words, a small moan ripping from her own chest. Fingers slid across tensing thighs, warmed by candle light and thick bed furs. She moved her mouth to Lexa’s clit and gently sucked, as her fingers slid through the slick heat. She took her time, teasing like she loved to so often, and relished the squirming above her.

Then she pushed a finger in, slow so as to avoid hurting the girl she loved, and curled it upwards. Lexa’s hips bucked upward abruptly, Clarke gently pushing her back down onto the bed with the hand still at Lexa’s thigh.

“Slow, Lexa,” she cooed. “Slow…” She began thrusting gently, curling her finger and feeling her lover clench around her.

“Klark,” Lexa gasped, eyes now closed and head tipped toward the ceiling, tugging at Clarke’s hair rather than massaging. The candlelight made each little bead of sweat glisten. “Mou, beja....” More, please.

Clarke complied, pushing a second finger in slowly, feeling Lexa tighten around her. She continued sucking and flicking at Lexa’s clit, gathering her wetness on her tongue as her fingers curled inside the girl.

Her thrusts were gentle, at first. But they grew in pace, quickening and curling more roughly against Lexa’s front wall as she bucked desperately up into the sky girl’s mouth and swirling tongue. Clarke felt heat gather in her own belly, her wetness beginning to drip down the insides of her thighs. She moaned again, a gentle vibration against Lexa’s core, as her breaths became ragged and she thrusted into Lexa harder, drinking in the feeling of her clenching and unclenching around her with her oncoming peak.

“Clarke,” Lexa moaned. “I’m…. Close….” 

Clarke let Lexa buck up into her mouth as her tongue swirled around her clit, and her fingers pushed into her more roughly. She ground down against the bed, herself, searching for any sort of friction. Before long, Lexa was arching off the bed, her mouth open in a strangled moan, as she came around Clarke’s fingers, clenching and releasing wildly.

“Jok, Klark….”

Clarke eased up, stroking gently and easing her lover down from her high, before pulling her fingers out and licking up whatever remained of Lexa’s climax. She placed a small kiss at her clit, before inching her way back up, and meeting full lips again as their bodies pressed together. Lexa could taste herself in the kiss, tongue playing against Clarke’s and exploring freely. She was still trembling from the high.

“Was that okay?” Clarke asked between kisses. Lexa smiled, a small giggle gracing the air. She didn’t answer. Clarke suddenly tasted salt.

She pulled away, gaze falling to tear-streaked cheeks and sad green eyes. Her heart flipped, and she brought her thumbs up to wipe the wetness away. The aching in her own core was forgotten.

“Hey,” she said, her voice a soft whisper. “What’s wrong?”  
Lexa smiled up at her, her dark waves a halo behind her ethereal features. She wet her lips, swallowing, before squeezing her eyes shut. She had to force herself to push the words out of her lungs.

“Please don’t leave me.” The plea came out as a quiet sob, her chest suddenly convulsing with each little hitching breath. Clarke had to blink back her own tears, kissing Lexa’s cheeks, eyes, nose, lips--letting her lips wander, and comfort. She wrapped her arms around the girl, holding her against herself and fingers pressing gently into her ribs. She shushed her, cooing, whispering sweet little nothings to her. Lexa suddenly felt incredibly small in her hands--like delicate porcelain, fragile and thin.

“Hey, shhh. It’s okay.” She pressed a kiss against Lexa’s cheekbone, thumb wiping away another stray drop. “I’m not. I’m not leaving, Lexa…. You’re okay….” Lexa’s eyes opened to meet blue ones again, lip quivering and body trembling. She said nothing else, but pulled the blonde down into her side, wrapping her arms around her. Clarke nuzzled her face into Lexa’s neck, as she slung and arm and a leg around her, holding her close under the warm bed furs. The golden light was fading by now, candles casting flickering light across their tangled, tired bodies. Clarke sighed into the comfort--into the feeling of home--before she closed her eyes and decided to let herself drift for a little bit.

Octavia would wait.

Before she fell into the thick embrace of sleep, she heard Lexa mumble something into her hair.

“Ai hod yu in.”

And they slept, wrapped in each other--wrapped in home, and love that waited months to emerge--and for the first time in forever, they both felt safe.  
They were both where they belonged.

Though not for long.


	2. A Shocking Twist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Who saw THAT one coming?
> 
> Certainly not Jason Rothentrash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I publish two hours late.
> 
> Do me a favor: Pick me up, place me in a dumpster, close the lid, and leave. Just leave. Leave me there forever, and let the garbage dude take me away.
> 
> This chapter focuses solely on Clarke and Lexa's struggle, as well, because that's the thing we'll use to tie in the City of Light and that whole shabang. We'll get into the Sky People's hullabaloo in the next chapter, starting with Octavia's point of view, and flowing into Raven's, before getting back to Clarke and Lexa. Sorry if this is a bit short.
> 
> All three plots will come tying together, so they all require a bit of work.
> 
> Anyway, here you go.

It wasn’t easy letting go.

It never would be.

“Don’t go.”

It was a whisper against Clarke’s neck.

“I won’t. I’ll straighten things out.” She pulled away to meet Lexa’s eyes. They had been holding each other at the foot of her bed, both now fully dressed. It seemed like forever had been compressed into an instant; It felt like they’d never have enough time. This wasn’t even goodbye.

But they both knew it could be. That was the way this world worked.

Clarke leaned up and laid a kiss on Lexa’s cheek, before pulling her in and pressing their lips together. It was slow, soft, and made heavy by a looming sense of dread. It was sweet, and Clarke hoped that someday, the sense of dread would go away. She hoped that eventually she would be able to kiss the woman she loved, and not worry about a single cursed thing in the universe.

It was the only thing she really, truly, selfishly wanted.

“Clarke, I….” It was the brush of a breath against her lips, now parted from Lexa’s as their foreheads pressed together. Her heart stuttered and she held her lover just that much tighter. When Lexa didn’t continue, she broke the silence.

“I know.” And she did. She knew exactly what Lexa had meant to say. She knew the exact words that ached to push their way out of the Commander’s ribs, and grace the air with their finality. She knew, and she understood. Because she felt it, too.

Clarke let her hand drift from the back of Lexa’s neck to her front, coming down to rest just over her heart. “I know,” she repeated, fingers gently pressing into the material of the girl’s dark shirt. The girl who only nodded, blinking back tears another time too many, before bringing her hand up to rest over Clarke’s, and squeeze.

“May we meet again.”

\---

Clarke pushed her bedroom door open with a sigh, eyes immediately scanning the room for her friend. She knew Octavia wouldn’t approve of her decision--hell, she would be infuriated. But she had to hold onto the hope that, upon explaining her plan to the girl, she would be forgiven. Because despite what she had been told, she could help Arkadia from the comfort of Polis. She could help, and she could do plenty, without having to give up her bit of happiness.

Or at least she hoped so.

Octavia was nowhere to be seen.

“... Octavia? I told you to stay put--” She stepped farther into the room, and only then did she see it. Or… Him.

Murphy. Tied to a chair, gagged, and beaten bloody.

She couldn’t catch a break, could she?

She ran over, kneeling and checking beyond his tattered clothes for any serious injury. He looked terrified--disgruntled, as always, but terrified. She cooed and hushed, attempting to comfort him as she went to remove the gag.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

Clarke turned, her eyes catching that same familiar, robed figure. Titus. Her blood froze in her stream. What in the world...

“What did you do to my friend?”

“Your feelings for Lexa force her to neglect her duties.” Titus ignored the question, his voice low and dark. “I only did what needed to be done.”

“What do you--” Clarke was incredulous, her words interrupted.

“Just as I will now,” Titus announced, his voice coming to a boom. He pulled his hand from his robe. 

The gleam of metal was unmistakable. A gun. In the heart of Polis. In the hands of a man who had likely never used one, or even seen one up close. What kind of sense did that make?

Clarke stood, hands coming up in surrender as the man pointed the weapon her way. She could feel her heart pound against her ribs, her system getting its kick of adrenaline.

“Titus, wait. Think,” Clarke pleaded. “She’ll know it was you.”

“She’ll think it was him,” he corrected, stubborn. He waved the gun. “Skaikru weapon, in the hands of a Skaikru thief.” Clarke was past incredulous--she couldn’t believe this was real. Then again, she thought, she should have seen this coming. She never missed the way he looked at her--as if she was a poison in the blood of life itself. She had simply put it past the man, believing herself safe under Lexa’s command. She had been naive enough to think that, for once, she need not worry for her own existence.

“Titus--” She began, but she was cut off once more. She watched his fingers tighten around the grip, watched him step towards her as he aimed.

“This ends now--”

The ring of a gunshot filled the air, ricocheting off the metal divider beside Clarke and making her ears ring. Every cell in her body told her to move.

So move she did.

Breaking into a sprint, she sped toward Titus, ducking under a bullet that barely missed her head. She didn’t take the time to think as she caught Titus fumbling with the pistol, it having likely jammed due to misuse.

She was reminded of something she had overheard in her three months away, living among the people…

… Don’t use a weapon you don’t know how to use.

Old wood scraped against her palms as she grabbed a chair from behind one of the side tables, lifting it and bringing it down hard across Titus’s form. He stumbled, the gun falling from his hands. The chair, now nothing but splintered fragments, dropped from Clarke’s hands as she threw herself at the man and brought him to the ground. Their bodies fell in a heavy heap, joints bruising skin and contact wracking their bones. Clarke grimaced in pain, as she pulled her arm back to swing at the man beneath her.

Titus didn’t submit, catching her fist mid-swing and bringing an elbow up to knock her back, leaving her with a bleeding nose. White lights went off in her head and tears sprung to her eyes at the stinging contact, rendering her helpless as Titus shifted their weight and pinned her down. His calloused hands closed around her throat as he pressed her into the floor, cutting off her breath. Her ribs felt as though they would break under the pressure, bending and creaking under the impossible weight. She struggled frantically, before spotting the familiar metal gleam at her side.

Her hand clawed for the gun, trying to seem inconspicuous as Titus focused on her breathless face. It disgusted her--that he wanted to watch the life drain from her blue eyes.

She felt it. Cold, and smooth. Weighted, but not heavy. Her hand closed around the textured grip, finger moving to the trigger in a silent prayer that the gun wouldn’t jam.

Time seemed to move slow as she pressed the gun against Titus’s temple, not registering the door swinging open behind him.

“Clarke, what is--” Lexa. Clarke’s finger froze on the trigger as Titus’s hands loosened just enough to let her breathe. “Titus, what is the meaning of this?!” She was enraged.

She had finally taken and been taken by the girl she loved so dearly, only to walk in on her subject trying to murder her no more than minutes later. What kind of ridiculous plot was this? "Let her go. Now."

Titus didn’t move. His eyes never wavered, cold as stone.

“I am sorry, Heda,” he said, his voice even lower than before, and gravelly with strain. Clarke felt the vein in his temple pulse under the barrel of her gun.

“Titus, that was an order!” Lexa stormed towards the man. Her green eyes were whirlwinds of fury, and her features were a bitter snarl. She would rip him to shreds before she let him harm her Sky Girl further.

Before gloved hands pulled her arms behind her back, and a blade pressed into her throat. A grunt ripped from her chest as she struggled against the grip.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you.”

The voice sounded familiar. Clarke’s mind tripped over the possibilities, trying to remember where she had heard it last. Then it clicked.

Black blood, dripping like ink to streak down her face.

Ontari.

Clarke’s chest filled with the burning rage of the sun as her finger pressed to pull the trigger.

“You bitch,” she growled through the little air that made it past the hands at her throat.

Click.

Silence.

The gun had jammed for good.

Fuck. 

Then, Titus’s voice once more.

“Forgive me.”

The stinging pain of heavy bronze clashing with flesh filled Clarke’s being, the world going black and fading quickly.

The last thing she registered was Lexa’s panicked scream of her name.

 --- 

Candles.

Many, many candles.

It was all her mind could comprehend as she drifted to and from consciousness. Her body had been jostled and moved--beaten and abused, dragged somewhere dark and damp. She could only remember the candles, though, and their flickering lights that turned the insides of her eyelids red. She could only remember the distant ache of pain--pain that would be far more acute if she had been completely awake, but was only a muffled echo behind the veil of fragile consciousness.

When she did come to, it was slow. It was preceded by low, unconscious groans, and gentle shifting in place. It was the feeling of the world around her, trying to get her bearings once again.

It didn’t take long for her to feel the restraints against her wrists, and the gag in her mouth.

Her mind jumped to awareness, panic pounding through her heart and lungs. Her breaths felt labored and wheezy, her ribs heavy and aching. As her eyes opened to her surroundings, the first things she registered were the paintings on the walls.

Dark, shadowed forms--those of a woman. Circles and infinity signs, mushroom clouds and bowing crowds of people--no stretch of wall was left without meaning. Meaning she couldn’t understand. Not yet, at least. Nevertheless, the paintings stood tall--black as space, almost menacing in nature.

The second thing she registered, was Lexa.

Beaten bloody, gagged, tied down to a chair only feet across the room. The torches crackled and spat hot light at her features, damaged and caked in dried blood and sweat. Clarke jolted against her bindings, a weak whimper muffled by her gag. She felt helpless. Lexa’s eyes flickered open, meeting hers. The green pools now looked teary and pained, quiet with a fury that transcended comprehension. Her cheekbones were bruised and her lip had clearly been split open, skin a soft shade of blue in the darkness. Clarke’s stomach flipped with anger and disgust--she would destroy whoever did this. She would do so brutally.

Then she remembered who exactly that was.

Titus and Ontari.

The Commander’s very own closest subject turned a traitor, allying with an Azgeda nightblood, to achieve… What? What exactly was the purpose of this? What exactly had Clarke and Lexa done to deserve the events transpiring--to deserve being beaten and nearly killed? Her blood boiled, and it occurred to her.

They had loved each other. And in this world, that could not be allowed. 

At that, a door behind her opened with a hollow click.

Footsteps, slow and leisurely, making their way closer.

“I see you are awake,” Titus said, stepping out into the middle of the room. Lexa’s gaze shifted, and Clarke swore if looks could kill, Titus would have died a thousand slow and torturous deaths. 

She froze against her bindings, her breath turning shallow as she let rage fill her with bloodlust. She had to find a way out of this--and when she did, Titus would beg her for mercy. She swore her own life on it.

“You understand why I had to do this, Heda” the bald man said, torch flame dancing against his now bloody robe, and torn knuckles. Clarke noticed his split lip, and the still open gash on his head. Good, she thought. She wished she could use the chair beneath her to repeat the damage she had done in tenfold. “You were made weak by Clarke. You are no longer fit to command. I had to take this into my own hands.” He was clearly addressing the Commander directly. Lexa’s eyes never left Titus’s face, nearly burning holes in his skin with intensity as he spoke. “We need a new Heda. One who will not let her feelings blind her of her duty in this time of need,” he continued, ducking his head. “You understand that well.”

Clarke heard the door open again, her muscles tensing in anticipation. Her eyes settled back on Lexa, searching her face for any hint of change, but once again, all she found was stiff fury. The person that stepped in front of her was the person she most prayed would not.

The scars of Ontari’s face were covered in black blood, framing the angles of her unmoving smirk. Clarke prayed the blood wasn’t Lexa’s.

Then she remembered Aden, the boy with the messy blonde hair that had vowed to protect her and her people. The boy that seemed a son to her lover. The boy that filled her lover's eyes with pride. And she prayed the blood wasn’t his, either.

“Thank you, Titus,” Ontari said, her voice smooth and unwavering. “Let us begin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. Out.
> 
> ... Of excuses for shitty storytelling, Jason Rothentrash.
> 
> Anyway, I'm going to go recycle myself, now.


	3. Old Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Octavia's tired of Clarke's shit (as usual). Raven breaks into Pike's office with Jasper. Clarke, Lexa, and Murphy, go on an adventure, and it kind of sucks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deeply apologize for how late this chapter is. I explained the reasons on my blog, a few times, so I won't get into it here. I hope you can find it in yourselves to forgive me, and enjoy this.
> 
> This chapter is over double the length of either of the previous ones--still not as long as I'd like, but I'm working on fixing that with future chapters. You'll notice I kept some little bits from the show--but don't worry, the way they're used and affect the story will be entirely different.
> 
> We get into Octavia's, and Raven's POVs for a bit, in this one. We'll get some HIGHLY important scenes from Pike and Ontari in the near future (I know, feel free to throw things at me, but it needs to be done for the plot). Unfortunately, we won't be getting into much of Minty just yet. But hang in there.
> 
> Here we go.

“Clarke should be here by now,” Octavia said. Indra didn’t reply, acknowledging the statement with silence.

They had been waiting outside the gates for two hours, and the sun was nearly gone behind the horizon. They had the best horses at the ready--ordered by Titus, apparently. And yet, the blonde was nowhere to be seen. If they didn’t set out soon, they wouldn’t make it past the blockade before dawn.

Octavia hoped that whatever was holding her up, it was damn well worth it, because she was just about ready to ditch her entirely. If she wasn’t going to come help, then that was on her. They’d find a way to fix this without her.

The great Wanheda. Destroyer of the mountain, commander of death.

Responsible for over 600 lost lives.

People respected her. Or, at least, feared her. Either way, they listened to her.

But if Octavia couldn’t get her to come help, then she sure as hell wasn’t going to beg her.

“If she’s not here soon, we’re leaving without her,” she said, clearing her throat and turning to pat the faded saddle of her steed. It was a powerful beast. Its black coat made it all the more beautiful. She closed her eyes, taking in the scent of soft earth and pine. Her shoulders relaxed the slightest bit.

“After this is all over,” Indra said. “We need to talk.” Octavia opened her eyes, turning to look at her mentor. Her impossibly bright eyes were met by steady dark ones. She hated those words. She hated them because they held the promise of something, but never yielded answers as to what something was.They always filled her with anxiety. She was a fan of anticipation, but she never fancied worry.

She only nodded in reply, shifting in place.

Then they descended into waiting, once again. Minute by minute ticked by, the sun dipping lower behind the horizon. Octavia found herself tying blades of grass into knots as the light finally faded into a hollow blue glow over the land, shadows closing in. That was enough.

She stood with a huff, brushing dirt off her pants as she took her steed’s reins in a single gloved hand. She lead it to a short row of posts near the gate, and tied it there loosely--that way it was discouraged from leaving, but if danger arose, it would be free to flee. She looped the strap of her blade around one of the saddlebags, knowing she couldn’t take it into the city. Sometimes, Octavia thought, she felt like she had more mercy on horses than on people. When she turned, she found that Indra had followed.

“I’m going back to--”

“I know. Lead the way, Skai girl.” Octavia flinched at the name. She was never part of Skaikru--she protected them as her people, and the people of her brother, but she wasn’t one of them.

She was Trikru.

This was who she was, and no one could take that away from her.

She hoped Indra would see that, and understand.

Just as she did at the battle of the Mountain. 

Just as she did before she abandoned her second.

Octavia cleared her throat and moved for the gates. The guards grunted in acknowledgement, looking the women over before pushing the heavy doors open. The two stepped through, nodding in appreciation, before making their way through the now less crowded streets. Firelight shone in the windows of most buildings in sight, trading stands draped in thin cloth. The sight of giggling children was gone, replaced by stumbling drunks and people rushing to finish their daily rounds. Octavia wondered what it was like to live in Polis, in the heart of Grounder life. She wondered what it was like to wake up each day to trade game for harvest, and come back each night to the warm, firelit comfort of a home. Of a family. She wondered what it was like to not have the worry of war weighing on her spine.

Then, she thought of Lincoln. She thought of, perhaps, persuading him into moving with her, once this was all over.

She was by no means an ordinary girl, meant for an ordinary life--but she would be lying if she said she, too, didn’t occasionally wish for a taste of average.

Making their way through the winding streets, Octavia kept her eyes on the tower.

When she found Clarke, she would undoubtedly rip her a new one. She couldn’t just abandon her people when they needed her most.

She understood her fondness for the commander, and the life she had in Polis. But when trouble called--when hundreds of lives rested on her shoulders--she couldn't simply turn her back and pretend everything was fine.

They were steps away.

“Octavia...”

She knew that voice.

She turned to the shadows of a nearby alleyway, forms moving forward into the light of the emerging moon.

Holy shit.

\---

“You ready for this?” Raven asked, her lips pulling into a smile. She and Jasper stood in her room, having waited for the sun to dip behind the horizon before moving. Breaking into Pike’s office and making away with the chip maker would be infinitely easier with the cover of shadows, and the absence of people milling about in the halls.

“Of course,” Jasper scoffed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Good, then let’s go. The guards should be switching out soon, which should leave the door unguarded for five minutes. From that point, “she said, stepping out into the hallway and making her way toward the control room, on the other side of the Ark, “we have ten minutes to figure out Monty’s password and get behind the door.” Jasper nodded, following in quick stride.

“Sounds simple enough.”

“Doesn’t it?” She laughed.

The Ark was quiet, most workers having retreated into their chambers, and the night shift guards manning their posts outside. Perfect, Raven thought.

The door to the control room came into view.

No guard.

Raven tapped Jasper’s elbow, breaking into a short jog. They slipped behind the door without a problem.

The room was filled with wires, and blinking lights, connected every which way to form the complex system that supported the Ark’s primary functions and databases. She spotted a short metal table by one of the panels, setting Alie’s case down and opening it in a few short movements. The blue AI core came into view, and she found herself smiling in anticipation.

“Alright, Jasper. Five digits, a hundred million combinations. Feed me some ideas.” Jasper looked at her incredulously.

“Where do you want me to start?”

“Well,” she said. “What’s his favorite animal?”

“Chinchilla.”

She paused, biting back a smile. Seriously?

Alie ran the numbers. “No.”

Raven nodded, clearing her throat.

“Nope. Keep going.”

Jasper shrugged.

“Uh, he likes jobi nuts.” Of course he would. Alie shook her head.

They ran through more questions, more possibilities. Dozens of them. None of them were right. 

Damn it.

“What’s his favorite place?” Raven asked.

“Down here or up there?”

“Either. Both.”

Jasper thought for a second, before he broke into a small smile. “Starboard window bay. It had the best view of the moon on the whole damn ship,” he said. “You know, we used to… Get a little baked, sit back and watch the sky, playing, um… On which planet would you rather? The answer is always Earth.”

Alie turned to Raven suddenly. “That’s it.”

“What?”

“The code is an alphanumeric sequence representing the word, “earth.”

Raven smiled, proud. They had five minutes left.

“Good job, Jasper,” she said. “Looks like Monty was thinking about the same window you were.”  
They headed out the door. Jasper stopped her with a hand on her elbow.

“Hey, wait.” She turned in question. “When this is all over, presuming we don’t get caught or killed… I’m the first in line for a chip, okay?”

She only smiled, turning to head out the door.

\---

“Let us begin.”

Begin what?

Clarke watched as Ontari gestured to Titus, before striding to Lexa’s side languidly. She let her eyes settle on the Commander’s bruised form, as the old man moved to search through something in the back corner of the room.

Clarke could faintly hear the familiar click of thin metal.

“It’s unfortunate things had to be like this,” Ontari said. Clarke scoffed through the cloth in her mouth. She was ignored. “But you left us no choice. You’ve gone soft, Heda.” The Azgeda raised a hand to brush at a strand of Lexa’s hair, flinching as she jolted away. She sighed, and continued. “Just as you were soft for Costia.” Clarke’s eyes snapped up at the mention.

Every muscle in Lexa’s body went stiff, freezing in place with tension.

“You still think it was my Planna that took her from you, don’t you?” Lexa’s death stare faltered in confusion. Of course she did. The Ice Queen herself had taken credit for the bloodshed.

The Ice Queen had killed her lover, and delivered her head to her bed.

The Ice Queen, who was now dead.

“I’m sorry, Heda.”

Titus’s voice reemerged.

… No.

Lexa’s eyes snapped to him, as he stepped to her other side. He had dark cloth in his hands, wrapped around metal that poked out the bottom. Clarke could tell there was a scalpel, and a pair of tongs.

“You were neglecting the people, and making yourself vulnerable. Costia was a weakness we could not afford,” Titus continued, throat bobbing in a swallowed breath. “To be Commander is to be alone.”

Clarke watched painfully as Lexa’s chest shook with a breath, and her eyes descended into fury again. She wanted nothing more than to comfort her--than to murder the man in front of her, and watch him bleed his betrayal into the cold stone floor. But the restraints against her wrists and ankles stopped her. She was helpless.

To think that the man who mentored her--raised her, taught her how to lead--would deliberately damage her like this. To think that he would devastate her, then pin the blame on someone else to cover up his own guilt for years…

It made Lexa sick to her stomach, and filled her with a sense of betrayal. Titus.

Titus had murdered the girl she loved. Titus had cut off her head. Titus had had it delivered to Lexa’s bed.

She felt like throwing up.

Clarke heard the doors behind her open again, shuffling and heavy grunting filling the room. Ontari looked up expectantly. “Put him in a chair. He needs to see this.”

Murphy’s form moved into view, being dragged by his arms and thrown against a metal chair before being tied down and gagged. As Clarke’s eyes settled on him, she noted he looked even worse than before, one eye swollen completely shut and his lip split badly. His nose seemed to be broken. He was conscious, though, his body tense and his gaze perplexed.

Where had he been?

Clarke had completely forgotten. A short wave of guilt washed over her heart.

The guards left, closing the doors behind them. At this point, it was safe to assume that every armed warrior in the vicinity had been bought. The thought made Clarke bitter--it upset her, that people would so easily turn against the force that protected them, fed them, for years, in exchange for… What? A week’s worth of spices? A shiny new vase? Perhaps they agreed with Ontari, and Titus--with the people standing here, tormenting leaders who did nothing to provoke them.

Perhaps they thought Lexa weak.

Perhaps it was Clarke’s fault, for making her weak.

The thought bit at her heart.

Lexa’s glare never broke from Titus, green eyes burning fires in the torch light as her chest pushed out another shaky breath. There was a tension in the air--as if, given the opportunity, the atmosphere itself would snap in two. It was uncomfortable, and suffocating, like tight clothes on a boiling summer day. Clarke shifted slightly in her seat, chair creaking softly under her movement.

“Before we begin,” Ontari said. “There is one other thing you should know.” Lexa’s eyes still refused to leave the form of her teacher, stiff and stubborn. Time seemed to drag on, the Azgeda taking her time. “The nightbloods went quickly.”

Lexa’s gaze snapped to Ontari, eyes widening. She strained against her bindings, teeth baring as a whimper left her throat. Ontari chuckled and leaned down, her lips a breath away from Lexa’s ear. Her hushed voice was still loud enough for Clarke to hear, dripping in poison.

“I slit their throats in their sleep, one by one,” she said, stopping for a moment before adding,”the blonde boy, too.” Clarke watched as Lexa’s eyes filled with tears, mirroring her own as they met. Her chest shook as if it were about to cave in on itself, and Clarke wished she could reach out--wished she could soothe her quaking ribs, and stuttering lungs. Her wrists burned from straining against the thick rope.

Ontari stood upright, then, nodding at Titus. He unwrapped the metal tools, setting them down and moving to stand behind Lexa.

Clarke could see tears in his eyes, the bone in his jaw jumping with stress. He picked up the scalpel, fire reflected in its surface.

Time seemed to build up like the strained breaths lost in the air. Clarke struggled, tears falling freely now. She felt the skin of her wrists break against the rope, bleeding through. Murphy stared, uncomfortable and out of place, heaviness settling over his heart.

“Yu gonplei ste odon, Leksa kom Trikru,” Titus began.

No… No, no, no.

Clarke could feel her blood dripping down her palms as she strained, eyes never leaving her lover’s.

Clarke was the final thing Lexa wanted to see.

Her green pools overflowed.

“Gonplei kom heda,” the Fleimkipa continued, “kik on fo eva.” His voice broke.

Lexa struggled, one last effort against death. Ontari grabbed a fistful of hair at the back of her head, forcing her to still. Her eyes never left Clarke’s, tears streaming down her delicate, bruised face.

An instant seemed to take forever.

Titus brought the scalpel down.

Her teeth bit down on her gag.

Clarke could tell the exact moment the blade split her skin.

Lexa couldn’t help the scream of agony that broke against the cloth in her mouth, white hot pain shooting through her neck and making its way into every fiber of her being. Her eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving with quick, strangled breaths. Clarke felt she was going to pass out from the sight itself. Every cell in her body filled with the bloodthirsty need to rip the old man apart with her bare teeth--to tear him to shreds, and protect the girl she loved. 

The wounds in her wrists only rubbed deeper, as she strained desperately to get free. She was willing to tear herself apart for her. Her teeth fought against her gag. She could feel her shoulders straining against her efforts.

Then, nothing.

Lexa’s chest stopped heaving.

Her body stopped struggling, and shaking with pain.

She slouched silently as Ontari loosened her grip on her head, and finally, let go.

She wasn’t moving.

Oh god, no. No, no, no.

Clarke went still in shock, her eyes wide and her chest empty.

Titus set the scalpel aside, picking up the pair of tongs and reaching for something in the wound he created.

A soft, quiet whirring--like a mechanism fighting free. Clarke watched in horror as he pulled what looked to be a chip out of Lexa’s neck, caked in black. Except, it seemed much more than that.

It seemed alive.

This couldn’t be real.

It clung to Lexa’s neck as he pulled it away, and it reluctantly let go. Its thin wires, like tendrils, pulled back into itself, and went silent. He placed the chip in a small metal box from the dark cloth he had set down on the table beside him. He reached down, then, his fingertips gathering Lexa’s black blood, before coming up to smear a line down the middle of his head.

No time was to be wasted.

“Let the ceremony begin,” Titus commanded the guards waiting at the door. 

Ontari smiled, smug, before moving to a still shocked Clarke, a few steps across the room. Her voice came out low, and smooth. “They’ll think you killed her,” she said, her eyes running over the sky girl’s beaten, bleeding form, before stepping past her. The heavy metal doors clicked shut behind her.

Titus picked up a needle and thread, and set about sewing up the wound in Lexa’s neck. Each Commander, upon death, was to be cleaned and burned honorably. No wound was to be left open. Titus had gone through the process four times, now. Clarke and Murphy watched in silence. It seemed to take forever, the blonde trying desperately to block out the sound of the needle piercing and pulling through soft skin.

Lexa still wasn’t moving.

When Titus was done, he wrapped his instruments, along with the box, back in the dark cloth. He held them tightly, his knuckles white, as he stepped away. He let his eyes take in his student’s features. “I only wanted what was best for you,” he said. Clarke’s mouth tasted of her bitterness at the statement. “Reshop, Leksa.” The words echoed in her head. He turned and headed for the door, pausing at Clarke’s side. “In time, you will understand.” No, I won’t. I’ll never fucking understand. I don’t want to. 

I want Lexa.

He slipped through the door, off to bring Ontari to the throne. There was no doubt that, within the next few hours, the chip would be embedded in her neck.

Ontari. The Azgeda girl, that stood by Nia’s side until her last breath.

She was the next Commander, against all tradition and value.

Why?

Because of the misunderstanding, and the stubbornness of the few.

Because Lexa had allowed herself to love, and Clarke had allowed herself to be loved--to love in return, so deeply that it echoed in every corner of her ribcage.

In this world, love was weakness.

And to lead, was to lead alone.

It wasn’t right.

Clarke’s head snapped up at the sound of creaking metal. Her eyes settled on Murphy, leaning back in his chair. The guards had forgotten to tie his feet down, and he had managed to kick one of the torches loose behind his back. His legs burned with the effort, as his wrists strained to reach at the flame.

Almost there.

He grunted against the gag in his mouth, breath hissing through his nose. His wrists finally reached over the flame, the rope instantly beginning to burn. As it burned the rope, though, it burned his wrists. He bared his teeth against the cloth in his mouth, brow furrowing deeply and jaw clenching. A few minor burns are definitely worth getting out of this shithole, he thought.

The snap of rope announced his freedom, as he fell forward in his chair. He rubbed at his wrists, cringing at the contact, before removing his gag and jumping to his feet. He ran to Clarke first, untying the rope around her wrists and staring in disbelief at the wounds she inflicted on herself. Her hands were soaked in her own blood.

She removed her own gag, ignoring her injuries and scrambling over to Lexa’s slumped body.

“Lexa,” she whimpered, her voice coming out gravelly and dry. She pulled her gag away, taking her face in her hands. “Lexa, please.” Her tears were overflowing, leaving her breath hitching. She tipped her chin up, thumbs running over her bruised cheeks. “Hey, come on, we’ve gotta go.” No answer. She sobbed, fingers coming up to check Lexa’s pulse as Murphy moved behind her, untying her wrists.

Nothing.

Time seemed to stop.

“No, please, no, no, no…” Clarke prayed to every god she didn’t believe in--every god forgotten as the first bombs fell 97 years prior--that the girl she loved wasn’t dead. Please, she prayed. Please, don’t do this

Then, a soft flutter. The touch of a beat under her fingertips. It was there--it was weak, but it was there. It was fucking there.

Lexa’s alive.

“Oh my god,” Clarke pulled the girl into her arms, slumping to the ground. Murphy stared, eyes nervously jumping between the girls and the doors.

“Clarke, c’mon, I don’t know how much time we have,” he said. Clarke held Lexa to her chest, hand running through her hair and pressing her close. She was careful not to rip her stitches.

“I’m not letting you go,” she whispered into the dark waves. “We’re gonna be okay.”

Murphy watched for a second, letting the situation sink in.

It had never occurred to him how much this girl might mean to Clarke. But here the blonde was, falling apart on the floor, breathing in the realization that her lover was, in fact, alive. She cradled her so gently, so desperately, that she might as well have been holding porcelain. His chest ached at the sight, uncomfortable and out of place. He realized he had done some questionable things. It was who he was. But he was human. And anyone with an ounce of understanding--the most miniscule amounts of sympathy, at least--could see the devastation in Clarke’s eyes. Could ache for her aching. This is so fucked, he thought. Goddamnit.

He crouched, and gently pulled Lexa from Clarke’s arms. Her lack of objection made it easier to lift the unconscious girl. She was surprisingly light--the touch of a feather in his arms, thin and elegant even in her beaten state. His body was weak, but he could carry her out of here--he would do it, regardless of his own state.

Clarke had helped him when he least deserved it--or, at least, tried to.

Clarke had named him her friend.

Even after all the shitty things he had done--all the murder, theft, abuse, and apathy. She had cared for him, without asking anything in return.

He had almost forgotten what that felt like.

He waited for Clarke to gather herself, wiping away her own tears as she shakily pushed to her feet. She tried desperately to force her mind into clarity. She needed to think--she needed to clear the fog of desperation enough to see reason.

She’s alive, she reminded herself. She’s alive. Breathe.

She laid a kiss to Lexa’s temple, before turning and running to the doors. She expected them to be locked into place.

They weren’t.

She pulled them open and stepped out, ready to meet angry guards.

There were none. Suspicion arose in her gut, before being overcome by determination.

This is too easy, she thought. But I’ll take it.

She gestured for Murphy to follow, stepping out of the temple and into the dark streets. She tried her best to melt in with the shadows, anxious that at any turn, they might get caught. She couldn’t afford that. She needed to get out of here. She needed to take care of Lexa.

Lexa. She’s alive.

The words kept echoing, bouncing off the inside of her skull. She could still feel the flutter of her heartbeat under her fingertips.

They inched down a narrow path between two short stone buildings, coming across an empty trading stand with burlap sacks at its end. Clarke grabbed three, tearing them into wide cloths and pulling one over her own head as a hood. She did the same for the two standing behind her. She gestured to keep moving, glancing back every short bit to check on Lexa. She looked so incredibly small and fragile in Murphy’s arms. This girl lead twelve clans. She fought wars, and lead armies. She was incredible.

The city seemed to go on forever, Clarke pulling Murphy into alleyways and shadows at the first signs of movement. It was eerily quiet past sundown, the activity limited to stumbling drunks and night owls. But those stumbling drunks and nightowls were still witnesses. They couldn’t afford any witnesses.

The street was clear. Just as Clarke’s eyes settled on the wall, between the towering buildings, posts, and tents, she spotted movement--a quick passing in the corner of her eye. She turned, squinting through the shadows, and ready to run if need be.  
There, striding down the street like she owned the place, was Octavia, Indra at her side. She came back for me, Clarke thought. Her heart flipped with hope.

“Octavia,” she said, just loud enough to catch her attention, before stepping forward and out of the shadows. Murphy followed, Lexa pulled close to his chest. She watched as the girl turned their way in question, eyes widening as the realization dawned on her.

“Clarke!” Octavia ran over, hands coming up to Clarke’s face as she looked her over. She noted the dried tears. “What the hell happened to you?” 

“No time to explain,” Clarke said. “We need to get out of here.”

“Why, what’s--”

“Octavia, please.” Clarke hoped the girl could see the desperation in her eyes. She seemed to understand, stepping back as her eyes settled on Lexa and Murphy. She didn’t ask for an explanation.

But she sure as hell would, later.

“Stay behind me,” she said, before returning to Indra’s side and leading the way to the gates. Clarke prayed to every god she didn’t believe in that they wouldn’t be recognized. As they neared the gates, Clarke pulled her hood further down around her face, before reaching over to do the same for Lexa. Murphy held her closer against his chest, further obscuring her face, as he nodded in reassurance. They would make it through this.

They slowed to a stop, Indra moving out in front of Octavia to speak. Clarke could only barely register the words, her mind in a million places. Indra mentioned something about a bar fight, and a sick girl.

After what seemed like an eternity of Indra’s back and forth with the guards, they let the group through. The doors groaned deeply as they were pushed open, followed by a few incoherent shouts of Trigedasleng. Clarke could feel eyes burning into her back as she walked, making her every step heavy and stiff.

They were through the gates, and they were closing behind them.

She couldn’t help the sigh that hissed through her lips, as she followed Octavia to the posts where their horses were tied.

The problem? There were only two.

Before she could open her mouth to ask, Octavia was taking Lexa from Murphy’s arms and pushing her up onto a saddle, Indra steadying her from the other side. Her strength was surprising, seeming to make easier work of the task than anyone else there would. “You,” she pointed to Clarke. “Ride with her. Murphy can have his own.”

The blonde wanted to object, but upon observation of Lexa’s slumped form, she climbed up without a word. Murphy didn’t hesitate, pulling himself up into the saddle of his own horse. 

Clarke pulled Lexa back to lie against her front, one arm around her, the other on the saddle. She felt delicate, and small, breath shallow and faint. A wave of protectiveness pulled through Clarke’s bones as the reins were untied and they were lead through the forest. Before she knew it, she could no longer see the gates, the sight of them lost between thick evergreen and the shadows of the night.

Her senses filled with pine, earth, and the chilled night air. She shivered and buried her face in the crook of Lexa’s neck, placing a chaste kiss against the exposed skin as her arm tightened around her. She whispered sweet little nothings to her, despite being unsure if she could hear. “We’re gonna be okay, baby.” The words were quiet enough to get lost in the space between them. She was surprised at her own use of the endearment, but it felt good in her stomach, so she decided she would use it more often. She wondered what Lexa would think of it, when she woke up. “I’ve got you. I promise.” She closed her eyes against her, taking her in, thanking the universe and everything it consisted of that Lexa was still alive, breathing, heart beating, in her arms.

She leaned back slightly, supporting the girl against her chest and running her free hand through her dark waves. She wondered if this was the world’s vengeance for her actions--for all the blood on her hands. She wondered if this was what she deserved, after all she had done. Perhaps she deserved to ache, and to fall apart. Like Emerson, whose entire family died at her hands, and who was now cursed to wander as the last of his people, until the cold embrace of death. Like the families of those killed at the Dropship, left with nothing but charred remains of faces they once knew--faces that once smiled, and laughed, and loved.

Maybe she deserved it.

Octavia’s voice jarred her out of her thoughts.

“So where are we headed, Princess?” She sounded sarcastic. Clarke couldn’t bring herself to care, mind running over all the places they could go. Dropship? Too obvious. Bunker? Too close to the Dropship. Arkadia? Only if she had a deathwish.

Fuck, she thought.

Then it dawned on her.

She had spent the night there before, in the warm embrace of bed furs and candle light. Back before this mess, after an entirely different one. Funny, the way one mess only seemed to lead to another, in this world.

She hoped to god this would work.

“I know a place,” she said. “A trading post, a little ways north west.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whomp, there we are.
> 
> Expect MAJOR Clexa fluff and jealousy in the next chapter.
> 
> Don't let that disqualify any negative presumptions, though--some terrible things are to come, and you're probably going to scream at me. A lot. But I promise, it'll be fine.
> 
> Let me know what you think about the way I'm taking this, and leave any tips or requests you might have in the comments! (I DO take ship requests into consideration, but remember, they're bound by the plot and characters so there may be some ships that just can't happen).
> 
> Trigedasleng Translations:
> 
> Planna - Queen
> 
> Yu gonplei ste odon, Leksa kom Trikru. - Your fight is over, Lexa of the Tree Clan.
> 
> Gonplei kom heda kik on fo eva. - The fight of the commander goes on.
> 
> Reshop - Goodnight
> 
> PS: I'm looking for a Trigedasleng translator (someone who is good with the language, and willing to take the time to translate things for me). If you're interested, message me directly at my blog: [lexacares](http://lexacares.tumblr.com)


	4. Take Care of Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke and co. make it to the trading post, fluffy bath stuff ensues. Pike is an asshole, and Ontari is evil. A familiar face makes a return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes, the long awaited Chpt. 4.
> 
> [cue 10 straight seconds of stressed screaming]
> 
> I stayed up late to finish this, in my already severely sleep-deprived state--I'm legitimately starting to see things and zone out at random times, I average 2 - 5 hours of sleep each night--and I couldn't go back to spell check everything. I hope it's alright, and lemme know about any errors you pick up.
> 
> With the added stress of school for the next 8 or so weeks, expect late updates. I'll also be uploading my Lexark fic here, soon.

They had been traveling for hours. 

The overwhelming shroud of darkness brought by the depths of the night made it no easier to traverse the treacherous terrain--especially since they had abandoned the existing trails for the cover of the woods. Tripping over burrowed holes in the ground, pushing through scratchy brush and undergrowth, there wasn’t a muscle in Octavia’s body that didn’t beg for rest. She could assume Indra felt the same, despite her proud gait and set shoulders. She could see it in the clenching of her jaw.

They couldn’t afford to take as many breaks as they typically would--their sole focus was to get to Clarke’s mentioned trading post in as little time as they could manage. They had only stopped twice, barely long enough to gather water from trickling streams and breathe freely. The trek seemed to drag on forever.

The silence was tense. Clarke cradled Lexa against her own weary body, Octavia only occasionally glancing up to wordlessly offer her flask. Indra said nothing. Murphy slept.

When the trading post came into view, only visible due to the firelight emanating from its windows, a quiet sigh came over the chilled night air. Clarke held her lover closer, just that much tighter, thumb rubbing circles into her side at the sight of hope. She pressed her lips to her pulse momentarily, reassuring herself of its presence. It was there.

The stars seemed to shine brighter, above, twinkling away and burning in their airless home.

“So do we just march in?” Octavia asked. Her voice came out gruff, and gravelly. Clarke blinked, thumb stopping its motion. There was still bitterness in the girl’s voice. She tried to ignore it--there would be time to deal with it later. So she answered simply.

“Yes.” Her mouth felt dry.

A short silence fell over the group, consideration filling the air. Indra gave no opinion on the matter. Octavia looked dubious.

Then, to Clarke’s surprise, she agreed.

“Alright. Lead the way, your highness.” Clarke smiled, once again ignoring the bitter bite of the girl’s tone. She tried to move, but quickly remembered the woman in her arms. She threw a glance at Octavia, attempting to get the message across.

A short sigh and the roll of a pair of bright eyes later, Lexa was being pulled off the saddle and slung over Octavia’s shoulders. She seemed weightless, in the way she was being handled. Clarke climbed down after, cringing at the stiff pain that had accumulated in her joints. Indra had taken to waking Murphy, the low grunt of a ‘wake up,’ and a short shove enough to do the job. The boy groggily pulled himself upright, and slid off the saddle he sat upon.

Octavia’s hands occupied by the girl across her shoulders, Murphy took the reins of her horse, as Indra took the reins of the other. Clarke was left empty handed, thumbs cracking her knuckles in discomfort momentarily before dismissing the sensation and leading the group forward. As they made their way to the front entrance, Clarke recalled her days here. Hunting. Trading. Surviving under a false identity.

She didn’t think she had ever felt more empty and more confused than she had, then, when she was alone.

Oh, how things have changed.

Murphy and Indra took to securing the reins to a couple of posts staked into the ground by the entrance, making sure everything was loose enough for adequate comfort. Clarke pushed the heavy wooden door open, stepping through first, the others on her heels.

Her eyes took in the room, running over the supplies and trinkets organized about--flitting over the candles on the smooth stone counter, and the space behind them. She wasn’t there.

Clarke stepped forward, opening her mouth to announce her presence. Her breath stopped short in her throat when the woman she seeked stepped out from the back room, drying her hands on a cloth.

“Niylah,” she said, finally. The woman’s gaze snapped up abruptly, startled. Then it quickly descended into anger.

“What are you doing here?” She growled, throwing the rag down on the counter as she stepped behind it, her hands coming to rest on the stone. She took in the state of the people behind the blonde, bruised, bloodied--one unconscious. She had seen the other two women, before, though she couldn't recall their names. Lexa went unrecognized, her hood pulled too low over her face. “What is this?”

Clarke stepped forward, her eyes pleading, now.

“I’ll have time to explain later,” she said. “All I ask is refuge. At least for the night. Please.”

Niylah’s eyes seemed distant for a moment, her jaw set--likely remembering her last encounter with the Wanheda, and what it had led to--and then nodded stiffly. She squeezed her eyes shut in a tense sigh, momentarily, before gesturing for the group to follow as she made her way into the back of the small building. Brushing aside cloth drapes, they were lead into a small, candlelit bedroom. Octavia laid Lexa down on the fur-covered bed, not bothering to ask for permission. As she set her down on her back, the hood fell away. Lexa’s hair spread into a dark halo beneath her head. Clarke was immediately at her side, fingers pressing to her pulse to check once more that it was there. Her skin felt cold under her fingertips, but the gentle beat was present.

As Niylah turned from the doorway, her eyes came to rest on the features of the brunette lying unconscious on her bed. Her mouth fell open, her eyes widening.

“Heda,” she whispered, her eyes going to Clarke in question. The blonde only stared, pleading desperately for the questions to wait. She thought quickly. She needed to check on the wound.

“Bring me clean rags and some water, and whatever alcohol you have,” she said, before moving to gently turn Lexa onto her stomach. She brushed the soft brown waves aside to expose her slender neck.

The wound was an angry red, black blood dried and stitches messy. The rest of Lexa looked sickly pale, contrasted by her black attire. She cringed. This wasn’t good.

Niylah returned hastily, a bottle and rags in one hand, a bucket of water in the other. The rest of the group moved aside in silence as they watched. Clarke turned to them, nodding thankfully as she accepted the items from the trader.

“You should wait somewhere else,” she said. Niylah nodded toward the door.

“My father’s room should be on the right. You can settle there.” The three shuffled out in silence, Octavia only stopping to throw Clarke an unreadable look, before disappearing. Clarke got to work, not wasting a single moment as she set the bucket down and soaked one of the rags. Niylah moved quickly to the other side of the bed, observing.

“Where’s your father?” Clarke asked, bringing the rag up to carefully wipe away the dried blood on and around the wound, letting the water soak in and cleanse. Niylah took a second to reply.

“He was called to the ranks at the blockade,” she said, plainly. “He should be returning tomorrow afternoon, for a few hours, before going back.” Clarke nodded, having successfully cleaned away most of the blood. They wouldn’t have long to rest, then. 

She dropped the damp rag in the furs before turning and reaching for the bottle of alcohol on the bedside stand, the dusty glass cool in her grip. She pulled the cork out hastily and tipped the bottle to the clean rag in her hand. She set the bottle down and took a deep breath. If Lexa wasn’t fully unconscious, this was going to hurt like a bitch.

“Be ready to hold her down if she wakes up, okay?” She had to be safe. Niylah nodded, leaning forward and bringing her hands up to rest in the furs, ready.

Clarke lowered the cloth to the stitched wound, pressing gently into the bottom quarter of the cut. As the chemicals pressed into the infected flesh, she noted the faint, barely-there sizzle. Good, she thought. It might be killing healthy cells, but it’s killing the bacteria, too. She hoped the reaction wouldn’t cause too much damage in its cleaning process--she hated using alcohol to clean wounds due to the damage it did to tissue, but it was all she had at the moment. She pressed the rag up and over the wound, cleaning it in its entirety. Soft. Slow. Careful.

One last gentle press of the rag to the wound, and Lexa’s body was tensing under her touch.

Every muscle in her body seemed to tighten at once, Clarke pulling back in surprise.

“What’s--” Lexa convulsed, her body shaking, quaking uncontrollably as she spasmed. “She’s going into shock.”

She hastily--but as carefully as she could manage--pushed Lexa back onto her back, checking her mouth for any sign of foam or blood.

None.

She watched as the girl shook uncontrollably, the brunette’s breath coming and going in quick, panicked puffs and wheezes. Shit, shit, shit.

“Elevate her legs,” she almost shouted at the trader still staring, jarring her into action. Niylah grabbed a couple of pillows from a worn couch on the other side of the room, before running back to place them under Lexa’s legs. She looked up and met the blonde’s eyes, asking for approval and getting it in a short nod. Clarke focused all of her attention on the girl lying there beneath her fingertips.

Time seemed to drag on forever, Clarke’s heart racing and tears springing to her eyes as she stood there helplessly. Before she could stop them, the words came out.

“I can’t lose you again.”

It was a quiet, strained sob, ripping up from the depths of her chest to split the air in two.

The pain coursing through her bones was unbearable, quaking in her spine and blurring her vision.

Then, just like that, the shaking stopped.

Lexa stilled, the air going deathly silent.

Clarke froze.

Was she breathing…?

She leaned down, her hand coming up to feel the girl’s heartbeat as she turned her head and held herself close.

A fluttering, faint breath danced across her cheek.

Then, movement.

Lexa surged forward suddenly, her eyes snapping open as Clarke pulled back and out of her way. Her hand came up to clamp over her own mouth as her legs kicked at the furs and she leaned over the side of the bed in a panic. Before she knew it, the meager contents of her stomach were being emptied out on the floor in rasping heaves. She missed the bucket by inches, yellowish matter hitting the stone floor in splatters. Clarke stepped forward and held her hair back from her face as she vomited, the bitter smell of bile washing over the room. She waited patiently until the retching stopped, slowing into dry-heaving, before halting completely. 

Lexa fell back onto the bed, exhausted and panting, but now somewhat awake. Clarke pulled another rag from the stand and brought it up to the girl’s face, cleaning around her mouth and mopping up the cold sweat on her forehead.

“Hey, you’re okay,” she cooed, tears drying on her cheeks as she tended to her, took care of her. “I’m here.” She vaguely registered Niylah moving around the bed and kneeling to clean the floor in silence. She mopped the fluids up with an old grey towel, before disappearing behind the drapes.

Lexa met Clarke’s eyes, her own pools of green so vulnerable and glossy with pained tears. She shivered under her touch, feverish and weak. Her mouth opened to form words, but none came out. Clarke placed the rag on the stand, thumb coming up to brush a tear from the girl’s cheek. She shushed her gently. Lexa closed her mouth, nodding--the movement barely there.

She was afraid.

Clarke pushed a weak smile to her lips, trying to reassure her love as her hands went to the hem of her black shirt. “We need to get you out of these tight clothes, okay?” Constriction and shock didn’t mix well together. Another short nod. With that, Niylah returned, the towel gone and a cup of water in her hand. The blonde looked at her expectantly. Within seconds, the cup was on the stand with the rags, and Niylah was helping carefully pull Lexa up, just barely enough to slip her shirt up and over her head. The garment ended up at the foot of the bed, Clarke already reaching for the buckle of Lexa’s pants as Niylah set the girl back down, softly. She tried hard to steady her hands as she undid the button and slid the zipper down, pulling at the black material. Niylah needed no word or gesture, as she slid her hand under Lexa’s lower back, and carefully lifted her. The cloth pulled down and over the curve of Lexa’s rear with ease, ending up bunched at her calves, where her boots stopped them from going further. Clarke unbuckled them, too, before pulling them off and tossing them to the foot of the bed, along with her pants. Lexa was left in nothing but her black undergarments--thin, fragile, and exposed. Clarke could tell she was uncomfortable with Niylah’s presence at her current state, so much of her body--so much of her weakness--displayed to a complete stranger. She tugged at the furs, pulling them from under her girlfriend and bringing them up to cover her shivering body.

The blonde then looked up at Niylah expectantly, silently begging her to understand. The trader merely nodded, sighing with worry-filled eyes, before picking up the bucket and soiled rags, and stepping through the drapes again. Clarke’s attention turned back to Lexa, feeling a cold hand cover hers. She let her eyes settle on the girl she loved, taking in her fatigue and her quivering breaths. She sat on the bed, by her side, and every cell in her body told her never to leave.

“I thought I lost you,” she choked out, fingers closing around Lexa hand and bringing it up to her lips. She kissed the back of her hand, before bringing it to her lap and closing her other hand over it. She never wanted to let go. Lexa only looked on, still shivering and feverish. The softness in her eyes was endless.

“You’ll never lose me, Clarke.” Her voice was weak, and small--but even in her quiet whisper, her strength could be heard. It wasn’t merely a reassurance. It was a promise. A fact. Clarke’s heart filled with it--drank it in, and let it fill every quaking corner of insecurity lingering in her mind. It pushed a small smile to her lips, her thumb running over Lexa’s knuckles. She then took a breath, remembering the world outside the warmth of the bedroom. Remembering Ontari, and Titus. Remembering Aden. Remembering Arkadia, and the cause of this mess. And then cursing herself for remembering at all. 

She pushed it all down, refusing to force the stress upon the bedridden girl beside her.

There would be time to worry, later. Now, she needed rest.

Minutes passed in silence, Clarke holding Lexa’s hand as time ticked by and she gradually came to feel heaviness in her eyelids. The hot candlelight turned her vision red whenever she allowed herself to close her eyes momentarily.

She was zoning out when a now slightly steadier voice broke the air.

“Stay with me.”

It was barely above a whisper--filled with all the hopes and promises, all the childhood fears, and all the aged terrors that lingered in Lexa’s bones. It was a pleading breath, released into the still, private dark. The private that felt more private than it should have, with four other people only steps away. It pulled Clarke’s eyes open, the words hitting her chest like lightning. Lexa sounded, looked, felt, so small. She wondered how booming commands and angry war cries had, at one point, managed to rip their way from the girl’s vocal chords without tearing her thin frame apart. And then she ceased to wonder, for Lexa was the Commander, after all. Her Commander. Her Lexa.

Her one and only.

Wordlessly, Clarke nodded, before kicking her boots off and shifting carefully across the bed. She came to lie by Lexa’s side, quiet and unmoving. The brunette turned slightly, addressing her weakly, gently.

“Do you--” She swallowed. The words felt stuck in her throat, refusing to cross her full lips. She took a moment to breathe. She was allowed to be weak, now. Nothing was stopping her.

Before she could get the words out, an arm snaked across her waist, thumb running short circles into her side. Clarke loosened, lying there, muscles untying. Before she knew it, the heaviness in her eyelids had taken over, once more, and she found herself steadily dozing off. She was tired.

She was aware there was work to do.

She was aware that a war was very likely to bloody the lands, and that she needed to help stop it.

She was aware that she did not have time to rest.

But she rested, anyway.

She was so, so incredibly tired of having to fix everything. And for just this one moment, she wanted to stop. She wanted to be stop being Wanheda, stop being the leader of the Sky People, and be… Clarke.

Just Clarke.

Before unconsciousness gripped her, sweeping her away into the dark depths of forgotten dreams and hazy memories, she heard one last utterance vibrate through the body wrapped in her warm embrace.

“Thank you.”

And they slept. For as little or as long as they could--it was sleep nonetheless. So long as they were together, it felt like so much more.

\---

Ontari stood proud at her newly acquired throne, having washed the blood off her face to avoid evidence of her earlier proceedings. It was still well into the night, but people had gathered in the throne room upon her request. She was to deliver news of her reign as soon as it commenced, and an audience was required to acknowledge. The ambassadors would be called forth the following afternoon.

Everything was carefully planned. Her reign was set in stone.

All she needed to do was lie.

The air was stiff in the room, heavy with damp heat and the thickness of the crowd. Ontari looked to the people, gathered there, chattering quietly, and took a breath.

“People of Polis,” she began, her voice projecting and bouncing off the stone walls. “I gather you here tonight to announce that Heda Leksa is no more.”

A hush fell over the crowd. They all stared at her in awe--all peasant faces she held no recognition to. She licked her lips, before continuing.

“Klark kom Skaikru betrayed Lexa. She murdered her in her sleep, before slitting the throats of the Nightbloods in their quarters, as they, too, slept.” Gasps and chatter filled the room once more, before the raise of her fist silenced them again. “This was an attempt to politically destroy the Trikru, in light of the brewing war. An attempt that failed.”

Everyone seemed to stare in curiosity.

She then pulled her dagger from her belt.

She didn’t so much as flinch as the blade cut into her skin, forcing a short stream of black blood to flow through. She raised her bloody hand, and held it proudly for her audience to observe.

“I, Ontari kom Azgeda, am the last nightblood within the court,” she paused, letting the words sink in. 

“I… Am Heda.”

Her voice was a growl, wild and sharp--dominating the space and everyone within it.

The people stared, some wide eyed, some swallowing their nerves and slouching in on themselves in cowardice.

And then, they bowed.

One by one, the people of Polis gathered there to witness, dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. They dared not speak a word as they did so, the familiarity of their previous Heda gone, and replaced by something cold, and bitter. Replaced by something sharp, biting, and selfish. A weight settled on their spines. They knew if they refused to bow, their heads would roll. Ontari relished the thought.

Then again, was this not what they wanted--a new Heda? Had they not deemed Leksa too weak to rule?

Smiling smugly, Ontari commanded them to rise. She had more news to feed them, and she had yet to accept the Spirit. All in due time.

“I have Klark kom Skaikru imprisoned, and ready for public execution tomorrow evening. The boy who helped her--a Skaikru thief--will be sent back to their lands, to yield news of my ascension. I call forward the ambassadors of the twelve clans, to come bear witness to my acceptance of the commander’s spirit.” She paused for a moment, turning to the Fleimkipa by her side. “Go get everything prepared.” Titus nodded stiffly before heading out, a single guard in tow.

She sat on her throne, silent, and waited.

Minutes ticked by, one after the other, all on each other’s tails. In the time she waited, she considered her first official direction as new Heda.

There was no doubt about it; Her armies would march on Arkadia.

She would, once and for all, lay waste to the invaders of her homelands. She would crush their guns, their fighters, and their defenses. Then, she would bury those who remained in the ashes.

She could already taste the finality of ash and smoke in the torch-licked air. Her blood rushed with itching anticipation.

At that, Titus returned. She must have dwelled in her thoughts for a good while, her fantasies of the Sky People’s bodies strewn about their own home like empty, bleeding vessels, carrying her away from reality. She snapped to attention at the Fleimkipa’s entrance.

Titus looked more distraught than usual, a noticeable coil tensing in his jaw as he strode swiftly across the throne room. Once by Ontari’s side, he leaned down, and whispered the news as best he could without any of the observers hearing.

Clarke was gone. The thief was gone. Lexa’s body was gone.

And when Titus checked his pocket, the Spirit was gone, too.

\---

“Is everything in place?” Pike asked, his hands folded behind his back as he nodded to the illuminated map in his quarters.

Pike had been planning this attack ever since the appearance of the blockade, but had only recently introduced it to the crew. It had been hours, at this point, and preparations should be finished for the operation to take place.

The plans were as followed: A team was to set out and mine a relatively small area just below a ridge, near the largest grounder encampment of the blockade, using APDs (anti personnel devices, highly deadly explosives). After mining, another team would be deployed within a jeep, armed with automatic weapons, and launch an all out attack on the encampment. Once the team had picked off as many warriors as possible, the reinforcements were to be lured into the minefield.

The APDs would then detonate, killing everyone in range instantly.

This would cause the deaths of hundreds.

It wouldn’t ward off the attack of grounders that would inevitably come pouring in, no. But it would buy them time to plan their next move.

“Everything’s in place, sir,” Bellamy answered, Hannah at his side, picking subconsciously at a thread in her uniform. He had seen to it personally that all procedures went according to plan. They were on schedule and ready to launch at the first sight of dawn. Pulling an all-nighter before a fight didn’t come as good advice, but at least he wouldn’t be on the front lines. That was for the dispatch.

Dawn, it occurred to him, was not very far away, at this point.

Within a matter of hours, they would be killing hundreds of grounders.

Grounders, he reminded himself, before a glimpse of sympathy managed to shine through to his conscience.

Grounders, not people.

It was easier to kill if you didn’t believe in the humanity of your enemy.

“Good. Make sure the teams are well rested, loaded, and ready by go-time.” Pike said, walking over to the listening device he had found under his desk--the bug undoubtedly planted by Kane and his resistance. He knew they were listening. Until he could gather proper proof, however, he couldn’t arrest them without looking like a tyrant to the people he relied on to execute his agendas.

All he could do was trust Monty to spy on their activities throughout camp, and report back when needed. Part of him hoped Kane wouldn't attempt to stop the operation at hand. He needed this to work. But the rest of him dared him, above all dares, to try. At least he would finally have a reason to snap cuffs to his wrists, and put him away. All his competition would be put away.

Either way, this would be a massacre.

A massacre, his was convinced, for the better.

Bellamy excused himself, and stepped out of his quarters, marching off to take care of business.

He had an odd feeling about the boy. There were times when he felt like his intentions were questionable--like his head wasn't in the right space, or the space he needed it to be. But he brushed the thoughts off quickly.

Bellamy was one of his most loyal assets, after all.

\---

Clarke woke to shuffling, and the familiar scent of deer stew. She opened her eyes to the sight of Niylah setting a steaming wooden bowl down on the bedside stand, before noticing her, and giving a short smile. It was still dark, candlelight flickering and dimly lighting the room.

“How long have I been asleep?” Clarke’s voice came out a sleepy croak, not bothering to move away from where she slept at Lexa’s side. Her hand rested on the girl’s middle, and she found herself drawing comfort from the subtle fall and rise of each breath under her palm. Lexa was still asleep. Clarke smiled, taking her in. She looked so peaceful when she slept, her full lips parted slightly, and her usual tension gone. She still looked pale, though, the blonde noticed, a soft blush of a fever tingeing her cheeks.

“About three and a half hours,” Niylah replied, leaning back against the doorway. Clarke’s eyes widened, and the trader reassured her. “Don’t worry, your friends took the opportunity to rest, too.” In the other room--Niylah’s father’s room--Indra, Octavia, and Murphy were lounged on the bed and the couple of old couches tucked into the space.

“Thank you for helping me,” Clarke said, after a long moment of consideration. The expression was quiet. She truly did appreciate all Niylah had done for her--and after she had walked out on her in the middle of the night, at that. The trader had no binding reason to take her in, to let her take her bed, and take refuge in her home. But she did it, anyway. Clarke didn’t think she could ever repay her.

Niylah nodded, a wordless ‘you’re welcome.’

At that, Lexa stirred, a small groan making its way out of her chest as her eyes fluttered open. Clarke propped herself up on her elbow to observe, smiling again when Lexa’s eyes met her own. 

“Sleep okay?” She asked the brunette, drawing small circles on her stomach with her index finger. Lexa only nodded, swallowing. She was holding something back.

Clarke didn’t push, only smiling in understanding.

Lexa’s attention turned to settle on Niylah. The trader met her eyes, looking mildly uncomfortable, before letting her gaze fall to the floor. Clarke felt a twitch in the muscles beneath her palm.

“Her name is Niylah,” Clarke said, softly, when the silence refused to break on its own. “I used to trade with her. She took us in.” Lexa turned to face the blonde, at that. Clarke could see the glint of something in her eyes--she couldn’t quite tell what it was. It was there, though, an emotion buried deep in green oceans. She pushed herself upright, running a hand through her hair. It felt greasy.

“Do you have anywhere I could bathe?” She asked, turning to the trader woman, who promptly nodded.

Niylah stepped across the room, moving to grip a sewn curtain hanging in the wall near the old brown couch, and pull it aside. Behind it lay a smaller, separate room. There sat a tub, a couple of wooden pails, and a few grey towels stacked neatly on a shelf beside a couple of seemingly homemade blocks of soap.

Clarke watched as Niylah set about lighting the candles in the space, one by one, using one to ignite another. Her eyes drifted to the glass knobs at the head of the tub.

“You have running water?” Niylah turned, and nodded, setting down the last candle. “How?”

“River water,” the trader replied, crossing her arms. “It runs through filters, before coming up, then draining back out.” Clarke considered for a moment, glancing back at Lexa, who merely watched the interaction.

“Cold?” Niylah seemed to know what she meant.

“Can be. There’s a heater under the tank. I can start it, if you wish.” Clarke nodded. Niylah’s lips twitched into a half smile for a moment, before she stepped out to make her way downstairs.

The blonde then stood up, moving to the other side of the bed and picking up the bowl of still steaming deer stew. Perhaps it was fine for Lexa to eat, now? She remembered Abby lecturing her as she worked with her own patients on the Ark, telling her that shock and food didn’t mix well. She’ll be okay, she thought. It’s been hours.

She tentatively sat down on the bed, soft furs and blankets sinking in as she did. Picking up the wooden spoon, she stirred the stew a few times, before looking to the brunette at her side.

“Hungry?” She asked. Lexa didn’t say anything, jaw clenching. Then, she swallowed, nodding. Clarke beamed, setting the bowl down momentarily to prop Lexa up on a thick gathering of pillows behind her, before picking it back up.

She gathered some stew in the spoon, a small chunk of well-cooked meat glistening with broth, and blew at its heat for a bit, before offering it up to Lexa. The girl took it in slowly, nodding gratefully before chewing thoughtfully, and swallowing.

The process repeated a few times, the whole thing feeling oddly intimate. Here Clarke was, feeding her lover, taking care of her. It felt so incredibly… Domestic, somehow.

“You should eat as well,” Lexa mumbled around a bite, before swallowing it. Her gaze had softened, and she looked up at Clarke in worry. Only then did the blonde notice the heavy emptiness in her own belly. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

As if on cue, a low, gurgling growl filled the air. A blush rose to her cheeks, and she looked up to find the brunette smiling wide in amusement. She couldn’t help the smile that graced her own lips in response, rolling her eyes as she submitted.

Stirring the stew before bringing the spoon up and taking in a mouthful, Clarke couldn’t help but moan, closing her eyes as the taste flooded her sense. She had been served much more luxurious foods in Polis--grand, spiced dishes, and desserts of fresh fruit, all specifically ordered by Lexa--but she swore, this was just about one of the best things she had ever tasted. Or at least she was hungry enough to think so. When her eyes opened and her gaze settled on Lexa once more, she found her staring, her lips parted.

Nothing was stopping her from leaning forward and kissing her.

But it would have to wait. Now, they ate.

She cleared her throat and offered up another spoonful, watching as Lexa blinked, and ate. Quietly, she fed the both of them, offering more to Lexa than she herself consumed. Nevertheless, by the time Niylah made it back to the room, the bowl was empty and both girls were sated.

Clarke placed the bowl on the bedside stand, as the trader pushed past the drapes. Her eyes settled on Lexa, and the now absent stew.

“I see you’ve eaten,” she said, sounding a bit breathless as she stepped over to the tub. She checked to make sure it was clean, before pushing the plug into the drain. She then turned the glass knobs. 

Water came pouring out with a hiss, filling the tub slowly. Steam rose and dampened the air.

Clarke stared, already anxious to step in. Niylah caught her gaze. “The heater runs off of firewood,” she explained. “It should burn for long enough.”

“Thank you,” Clarke said, smiling.

“Please. Take your time.”

Lexa stiffened slightly behind the blonde, watching the interaction. Niylah seemed comfortable with Clarke. A bit too comfortable.

She said nothing as the trader woman made her way to the drapes in the doorway, pausing for a moment. “I’m going to try and rest. If you need anything, wake me.” And with that, she was gone.

Clarke stood from the bed and made her way over to the tub. She reached down to run her fingers through the rising liquid. It was on the hotter side, but not uncomfortably so. She glanced back at Lexa, and the feverish blush in her cheeks. Perhaps, if she let the water cool a bit, first…

She stripped from her clothes, piece by piece, peeling the cloth from her still sore and bruised body. She didn’t bother folding the clothes--she actually hoped she would never have to put the sweaty, bloodied articles back on. Once she was naked, she turned back to Lexa. “Care to join me?” She asked, her voice soft.

Lexa stared, lips apart and gaze flicking across Clarke’s bare body, drinking her in. She was absolutely, hopelessly enamored.

Part of her couldn’t believe this woman, with all her soft curves, smiles, and charm, had fallen apart beneath her fingertips not so long ago. Part of her couldn’t believe that this woman was hers. 

Mine, she thought. And I’m hers. 

Not willing to look away, she nodded. Clarke smiled, making her way back over. Lexa, though weak and still feverish, admired the way she moved in the candlelight.

She was a painting set into motion--all golden waves, swaying hips, and tragedies written into soft skin.

Clarke helped Lexa sit up fully, slowly, tugging the furs down from around her thin frame. She then slipped her fingers around to Lexa’s back, unhooking her bra and letting it fall from her full breasts. The brunette’s breath caught as her nipples stiffened against the air, and Clarke reassured her with a soft, chaste kiss. She smiled against her, before her hands drifted down her smooth, scar-riddled body, and tugged at the black fabric of her underwear. Lexa nodded, lifting her hips weakly in affirmation as she was left completely bare. Clarke leaned back for a moment, taking her in. Everything from the elegant dip in her hips, to her gorgeous green eyes.

She’s mine, she thought. And I’m hers.

She wasted no time, standing and carefully helping Lexa to her feet. The girl seemed shaky in her movements, sluggish and tired. Clarke took her hand and led her, close by her side, their shoulders brushing with each step. 

The tub was more or less full. She turned the glass knobs, the flow ceasing. The air had become thick, warm, and humid, steam rolling across their exposed skin. The tub, having a decorated golden coat of sorts, made the liquid inside seem just as regal.

Clarke squeezed Lexa’s hand and watched as she stepped into the spacious tub first, her movements tentative. As her calves immersed in the liquid, however, Lexa found herself letting free a soft moan.

It felt so fucking good.

“Easy now,” Clarke chuckled, letting go as Lexa sank the rest of the way in, closing her eyes in a sigh. She soon followed, stepping into the deep bath smoothly, and submerging her body immediately. The warmth was pleasant, wrapping around her in a comfortable embrace. It loosened her muscles, and she found herself relaxing.

Lexa met her eyes through the steam, then, and she knew what she wanted to do.

“Come here,” she said, curling her finger at the girl. Her voice was quiet, her face soft.

Lexa noticeably trembled, before swallowing and gingerly making her way over, scooting across the tub as the water sloshed around her body.

Clarke spread her legs, then, and gestured between them.

Lexa looked confused.

“What--”

“Sit with your back to me, silly,” Clarke said, a giggle gracing the air. Lexa smiled, nodding.

“Right, of course.” She turned her back, scooting between Clarke’s legs until she felt the soft press of her mound against her, and hummed at the contact.

Clarke’s fingers began kneading into her flesh, untying the countless knots in the older girl’s back, and pulling a pleased groan from her throat. She traveled expertly across the planes of Lexa’s skin, pressing, drawing circles, pushing her palms in and retracting. She could feel the muscles ripple under her touch--like tectonic plates shifting in the earth, tremors of their own releasing tension into space.

“Is this okay?” She asked. The brunette hummed again, nodding and leaning further into her.

She remembered the way Lexa had felt under her touch, back in Polis--all soft and hard, relaxed yet poised, and everything at once as she fell apart on her tongue. The girl was a living paradox.

That seemed like forever ago, already.

“Clarke…” Lexa moaned, quietly, after a few minutes. Her eyes were closed in pleasure and relief, slouching into her girlfriend’s ministrations. Refusing to resist the urge, the blonde leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss just under the wound in her neck. She rubbed a few last circles into Lexa’s back, before reaching for the soap and sponge on the shelf beside her. She rubbed the soap into the sponge, before placing it aside and gently setting about bathing her lover--running over her shoulders and down her back, across her sides and her arms, her toned stomach and her full breasts. She ran the sponge over Lexa’s body, especially gentle with the museum laid in her skin--her tattoos, her scars, all memoirs of past struggles. She avoided her wound. She kissed her neck. Her fingers lingered at her sides, worshiping every inch, every atom, and every ounce of her soul. Warm water dripping gold down her skin, making her glisten as the blonde rid her of the blood and grime.

It was tender, and intimate. It was trusting, and good.

“Do you want me to do your hair, baby?” Clarke asked, the endearment slipping out before she could stop herself. She felt a fiery blush rise to her cheeks as she set the sponge aside. Lexa took a moment to reply, her heart stuttering at the word.

Then, she nodded, a smile so goofy and wide spreading across her face, that Clarke wanted nothing more than to capture it with her own. She settled for another kiss at the nape of the girl’s neck, before picking up the soap and setting about washing her hair, tending to her, massaging her scalp. Lexa hummed in content, fingers coming up to draw tiny circles in the side of Clarke’s knee.

Minutes later, when Lexa’s hair was clean and pushed soaking over one shoulder, she turned to Clarke again.

“Do you wish for me to do the same for you?” She asked, her voice small and loving. She was more than willing to return the favor, despite her fatigue.

“This is about you,” Clarke said, shaking her head. “I can do it myself. Rest.” Lexa nodded in understanding, before scooting back a bit and settling upon merely watching.

She watched as Clarke pushed the soapy sponge to her own skin, washing the dirt and grime into the golden water the two sat in. She watched the soap suds roll over her breasts--fuller than her own, even--and trail down before disappearing into the water. She watched as Clarke rinsed, and rinsed again--as she applied soap to her blonde waves, and washed it out again with grace she undoubtedly did not know she possessed. She watched her blue eyes squint, and her nose scrunch up when her finger got stuck in a knot. She watched, and she loved.

Before she could stop the words, they were out.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Clarke stopped her last rinse short to meet the brunette’s eyes.

Before either of them knew it, their lips were pressed together, Clarke’s hand at the side of Lexa’s face, bringing her close.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t fast, hard, or hot. 

It was warm. It was slow, and soft.

It was home, Lexa moving and pressing up between Clarke’s legs to bring their bodies flush together.

They both felt it, as their lips moved against each other, and their tongues pressed to each others’ flesh in tenderness.

This was it. This was home. Breathing, beating, and alive. It wasn't a place, but a person.

Clarke loved Lexa. And Lexa loved her right back.

The kissing did not escalate into anything more than just that--kissing. Not only was Lexa still far too unstable and weak for such an activity, despite her fever seeming to have gone down, but both girls found joy in simply being with each other. There was a certain magic to being able to be so close, be so intimate with someone, and trust them fully without truly asking anything in return.

So, when Clarke pulled away, Lexa felt no loss, no. But she did feel the promise of ‘later’ pent up between her legs, and she could tell that her lover was feeling the same.

“You’re beautiful, too,” Clarke said, pressing their foreheads together, smiling wider by the second. She placed one last peck on her girlfriend’s lips, before turning and pulling the plug out of the drain.

Lexa watched as Clarke threw her hair over her shoulder, and stood, shivering at the loss of warmth (even though the water had been getting cool, anyway). Lexa followed, standing, and giggled at the goosebumps that covered her lover within seconds. She was handed a towel, and used it to dry her hair before wrapping it around herself, just as Clarke did. The girls stepped out together, pinkies linked loosely and hanging between them as Clarke stared at the discarded clothing on the floor, as if it had somehow personally offended her.

“I don’t have extra clothes,” she grumbled, trying not to pout too obviously (and failing).

“We may ask the trader, then,” Lexa replied. She wouldn’t let her jealousy get in the way of her lover’s well-being.

“Excuse me… We?” Clarke chuckled. “You’re going back to bed. Come on.” Lexa did not resist her lead, following quietly as she held back a small smile. She discarded her towel, pulling her black undergarments back on, before slipping under the sheets and thick furs. Clarke leaned down to place a kiss on her forehead, her lips lingering a few moments longer than they should. The fever had very nearly completely subsided, it seemed.

“I’ll be right back, niron,” she whispered, before pulling the towel tighter around herself, and stepping through the drapes into the main room. Some of the candles had been puffed out, leaving the room in near absolute darkness.

It was easy; All she needed to do was find Niylah. The trading post was rather small, though average size for a post so close to Azgeda territory. Where could she have possibly--

A loud metallic twang sounded on the other side of the room, just behind the counter.

Oh, shit.

Clarke grabbed the nearest object she could weaponize--a thick, heavy, stone candle holder--and inched her way forward.

A few more steps.

She rounded the counter.

There, Niylah lied, pinned to the ground by a mass half her size. There was a blade to her throat.

As Niylah’s eyes settled on her and filled with hope, the mass on top of her followed her line of sight, turning to face the blonde.

… Oh, my god.

“Aden?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DIDN'T SEE THAT COMIN DID YOU LMAO I AINT JROT YOU REALLY THINK I'D LET MY SON DIE?
> 
> Anyway, super exited to write Aden and his interactions with the co. in the future. 
> 
> A lot of death coming up in the next chapter or two. Fair warning. If you don't already hate Pike and Ontari to hell and back, I can pretty much guarantee that you will.
> 
> Don't worry, though. Expect a lot of fluff and smut in the future, too.
> 
> My [blog.](http://lexacares.tumblr.com)
> 
> Trigedasleng translations:
> 
> Niron - Lover, loved one.


End file.
